"tacitly" poems
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
HE always gets the higher rank,
Not just HIM but any
Of the fall soldiers.
What do they fulfill,
That you are missing,
Are you troubled behind closed doors?
You have a youth of your very own,
Standing right here,
Tacitly craving just a loving expression.
You wound me when you advise tactfully,
that I should vacate,
So you and your vernal pibe,
Can take in abortive entertainment.
Little did I know,
Lounging in the same environs,
Was a taboo in the posh palace.
I would reflect,
Reimagine & rationalize.
If you neglect to
You may find a solitary soul.
My heart hopes for the highest,
But days past tell me otherwise.
Humans argue, fuss and struggle,
But those who,
Value and treat unconditional loves,
Warmheartedly get the real pleasure.
If I ride off from this declining,
Tormenting cliff, like a lost knight,
Know why.
&
When things get distressing,
Maybe then you will understand.
Love & Art,
Offspring
1991-20??
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
Only once she smiled when I cried,
That is the time when I was born.
She held her breadth and brought me to earth
She gave her love without any wanting in return
When I first stepped like 24 paired chromosome being
She would have been astonished on seeing.
Her astonishment would have been imbibed inside my heart,
So that I am relieving it now in this form of art.
When I reached her height
I recognized her might
She taught me life
Tacitly by her life.
Still I am a child to her
Though wrinkles sketches my face.
In this life of race
Next venture could take me to an unknown place
That place also will be followed by her love
She is very special to me
As how every children is special to their mother.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
You've gone at the break of dawn,
like a nymph, an apparition from a dream,
dissolves at first light,
the lingerie you left behind,
forgot to take, in your hurry,
bears your sensuous memory;
only touch of reality in the whole affair.
It tacitly tells, how it remembers
all that transpired between us,
all through last night,
by fluttering wildly
in the hands of titillating breeze,
to catch my drooping eyes.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
My world is a radiant caramel dewdrop,
amidst the blissful blades of chocolate grass
that flourish like an expert sabre,
waiting to sever me from bleak reality
and the coldest of darknesses.
My world is the battlefield of imagining,
waged between the disembodied armies
of beautiful youth and frantic existence.
My world is an upside-down fairy tale,
where the princesses are sovereign and joyous,
but soon locked away by charming princes.
Where the absent shoe is found at a ball
and is never worn again.
My world is a creation of innocence,
with generous fountains of exuberance,
and a statues built after words unsaid.
My world is the autocracy of rapture.
I am king, hear me roar.
The invisibles and the less-importants
are tacitly knocking against the door
of my nougat castle, intruders!
Arm the guards! Foot the gates!
Let it be known that my world
shall not fall to mere accusations
of "autistic" and "challenged"!
I am king! Hear me roar!
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
Tears are words the heart can not express
For too many are painful, harsh & cruel
Our very core, weakened under duress
Throat tightened and tacitly rueful
Heart on fire in a burning chest
More fervently sigh after sigh
Hastened in grief and in distress
A bleeding soul seeming to die
Longing for time to quickly come
To heal at once these unseen wounds
Unseen but felt a thousand fold
Awaiting seasons to dispel gloom
Pass Winter come to Spring
With all wonders this season brings
Atone my heart inner scarring
To once more blooms & wildly sings
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
The feelings that I have
And the feelings that are me
Do wax and wane from time to time
With the rising falling sea
Often swamped within its swell
At the mercy of tidal clocks
One day to dance across a beach
Another dashed on rocks.
Rarely going straight to the point
But approached best from the side
Testing gently, tacitly
Before the pincers are applied
And they can be formidable
With a tenacious grip
So be careful what you wish for
If into the rock pool you do slip.
Evolved with solid outer shell
An armoured place to hide
Because beauty may be skin deep
But emotions lie inside
And the softness of the centre
Can be a dangerous place to go
For it can upset the natural balance
Of what we think we know.
And though we truly feel the pain
Our hearts fight to be true
So we cling on through the stormy days
Just because that’s what ***** do.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 5:12 PM UTC
As ever shall be, the endearment
of the unread...lain sleepless in astral catalepsy.
Fevered forever in seeing, as by the
absence of occupancy--the life of
light lives its pass through and
through.
Absorbed wholly, spoken for by a
silence too great to repeat...
yet tacitly repeating.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Come join the network with me -
Watch your friends in the freak tent, see,
See their pictures when drunk,
Their reactions when dumped,
Just sign here to... 'tacitly' agree.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
Perfect is cold showers in the morning
Perfect is long walks 'til your feet are too weary to take another step
Perfect is working out 'til you faint
Perfect is my hands around my thighs
Perfect is my elbows bigger than my arms
Perfect is my ribs like guitar strings
Perfect is my thumb and my pinky meeting at my shoulders
Perfect is my hips like anchors below my waist
Perfect is my spine like thorns on my palms
Perfect is my collarbones like hinges on my throat
Perfect is the immense gap between my thighs
Perfect is a diet soda and a ******* for a whole day
Perfect is 16 bites a bitsy cupcake
Perfect is guilt in every swallow and throwing up afterwards
Perfect is slits on my wrist after eating
Perfect is my clothes that fit like blankets
Perfect is the scale on 35lbs
Perfect is to be lighter than air
Perfect is size after zero
Perfect is lying to yourself
Perfect is denying you're starving to death
Perfect is 21 calories for a whole week
Perfect is not eating
Perfect is must not eat
Perfect is laxatives and diuretics
Perfect is empty
Perfect is skinny
Perfect is reality in a trance
Perfect is just-breathing
To embrace perfection is to live inside a dead body with an empty soul;
To tacitly prepare for your grave while struggling everyday to survive
Perfection is your frame in a frame
Perfection is death
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
Where is my saint in the clouds
Who has fallen from ether
To reconfigure my essence?
Where is my saint in the foam of the sea
Who has evaporated into the mist
And waits to be inhaled by me?
Where is my saint in the grooves of my past
Who paints with my tears
A portrait of the coagulence I feel in the core of my being?
Where is my saint in the eyes of the stars
Who refuses to shine
Until I’m sheltered in between the chaos of time?
Where is my saint in the pores of the ground
Who tacitly unearths a grave
And convolutes my flesh into the pith of the earth?
Where is the demon
Who was born from my negligence
And taints the deeds of my conscience,
Frays the seams of my being
And lays dormant in the cellar of all my possibilities?
March 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
The poet is not a writer,
though she uses words,
the difference lies in the sentiment,
when he writes a book,
he writes it in order to educate and entertain,
when she writes poetry,
there is a fleck of the unseen,
there is a dream-like quality to the poem,
chaotic rhythm trying to make sense of the madness,
a maddening landscape as surreal and cerebral as Eloheim,
and still the poet persists,
but it is for this reason that understanding breaks down,
and while the poem is often misunderstood,
still she writes for others,
fighting desperately for a cure,
a cancer that all things dendritic cannot touch,
a wound that runs unabated through culture and the human imagination alike,
she writes poetry for future generations,
for her children to read,
leaving the fire lit aflame in the hearts of the next generation,
but each generation fewer and fewer take up the charge,
fighting the good fight is obsolete,
and so it is for the few to tacitly and tactically,
with a tactile touch,
fix the accumulation of those who came before.
I am not a poet,
I do not write for the greater good,
I write for myself,
for the well-being of the being in my head,
for the scrapping in the derelict corners of my mind,
grey matter splattered on false sentiments,
lies and truths mingled betwixt cortex and stem,
a tree burgeoning upward,
and so I do not write for you,
but for myself,
for I am no poet,
lost in rasping of my own words,
in tranquility I fester,
for I owe you nothing,
and from beneath that pretense,
I hang.
I would say that the death of the poet,
is the death of language,
though art fell victim long ago,
and so I find solace in its falling leaves.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
You haberdashery hauberk harangue of a hornswoggling hiatus . Your arrogantly delusory blasphemous dementia of odiously ominous diabolically grotesque gives me a decadent distraughtness of desultory debauchery and ghastly gnarly abysmal abjections . It causes hysterical deliriums of maniacally macabre . My swashbuckling surreptitious spatiotemporal telemetry tactician is tacitly inured in a phantasmagoria fantastication of fabulist façade fantasias . I could positively kithe a futurity cudgel phantasm and bonkers bluster boggle with your phrenetically frenzied phrenic and forget my phyletic you preterit rendition autonomy equilibrist .
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
Excuse me while I insert
This logical probe through the frontal lobe
Of my emotional epicenter
This is a latency test....
Ratings of my muse
Are falling like waistlines at the mall
From the best of rhymes
Tacitly turned on wheels of subtlety,
To the jest of all time,
A lyrical mockumentary,
Starring Miss Pellings
And her first cousin Cliche
Excuse me while I excise
The phobias, limits and lies
Polluting my paradigm of choice,
Diluting the core of my creativity,
Muting the "i" in my voice
This latency test is now complete...
Welcome to my new Literary Bar
Raised beyond the average line;
The stars of our poetic destiny await....
~ P
(#latencytest)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
In the dark
time shows no sign
forward backward or up
the diligent digital clock
tacitly ticks its tocks
dark recedes to dark and then
only to spare no light again;
But suddenly some scowling scream
("Still survive!" he shouts at me, according to the OED.)
shatters silence, tears the scene,
rips a hole in the dark, serene,
before any morning can be seen;
Some hidden pigeon's cackling
time revives, unshackling,
though the day is yet to come,
as if to offer a reminder to one:
"keep to the fore,
look to the sun."
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 2:33 PM UTC
Finally,
you didn’t reply to my last message,
and I tacitly refrained from sending another one.
We simply vanished from each other’s worlds.
I used to seek an answer,
but now I realize there’s no need to ask.
Looking back,
every detail is actually the answer.
Nov 5, 2024
Nov 5, 2024 at 12:08 AM UTC
She looked so defeated
Lying on that filthy stiff mattress
In a dingy room
With no furniture
Light or life
The walls were sticky with bleakness
The atmosphere reeked of poverty
Clutching her throbbing belly
Cradling nothingness
I prayed she would not cry
For I would not have been emotionally equipped
To handle such state of affairs
Face swollen, skin inflamed
Unbothered by her unkempt hair
A slight tremble in her voice
My heart sank and burned a hole in the floor
The sound of the small television
In the corner
Sliced the silence
My mouth was dry of words
If only I could shove my hand
Down my throat
To pluck the right words to say
Out of my core
Words of sympathy can be an insult
When nothing you say
Can lessen the hurt
I said nothing
When our eyes met I said all I had to say
Tacitly.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Existential ache,
Visceral and immediate
Occludes all reason,
A fated Solitude.
The myth of dearth,
In prose retold
Retaining fictive resolve,
Tacitly confessed.
Ineluctable Torpor
Petitions my
Ardent supplications.
Present,
Beckoned in the dulcet
Confluence —
Beauty and affliction
Freshets of silence,
Redressing the fallow
Surface of my soul.
© 2016 W. S. Warner
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
Walking unsteadily around
feeling her way as a blind person
Searching and shifting for someones face
Upon the discovery of His
Who did this to you?
In the naked darkness,
the feeling of being evaluated
pushes it’s way in from all sides
Shuffling of her feet
and eyes bruised with the knowledge
Who did this to you love?
Black circles of burned tears
words that tears like a broken saw
muttered under the breath of melancholy
I did
Darling, but you’re bleeding!
Tacitly avoiding his words
Upon the memory of his sagacious mind
Born of the moonlight,
She knows when to avoid the brooding stillness
Why did you do this?
And as the palpitating silence lengthened
The white cloth he has strategically placed
is painted with red
and a protest already wavering on her lips
As his fingers were gently laid upon her soul
I wanted to clear my mind of a thousand memories
Scratching her nails
into the painted milky white flesh
His hands searching for hers
Asking for her dripping hands
They are my battle wounds
And who, may I ask, were you battling?
The rippling questions pulling her further away
Soundless words only little more than a whisper
Desperately pulling the strings of her heart
The wounds, almost a piece of fragile art
Myself
Don’t loose yourself, take my hand, let me guide you
I don’t want to be a burden
The blood that trickles down her arms betrays
what her words are meant to portray
And as the piercing sounds were spoken from his mouth
Seriousness lurked in the depths of his eyes
Sweetheart, you are only a burden to yourself.
Carefully pulling each red stained cloth of her body
Exposing the ragged contour
Withdrawing herself is what she does best
but he has a hold of her heart
as he examines every inch of broken skin
How can I trust you?
Here, take my hand.
He readily grasped her icing cold fingers
and dug them into his chest,
till she was left with his heart in her hands
The red warm liquids
mixing with her own stained violet bruises
She suddenly remembered what it felt like
to feel the heartbeat of another person
*You wanted to clear you mind of memories,
but in the meantime
you forgot love.*
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
You haberdashery hauberk harangue of a hornswoggling hiatus. Your arrogantly delusory blasphemous dementia of odiously ominous diabolically grotesque gives me a decadent distraughtness of desultory debauchery and ghastly gnarly abysmal abjections . It causes hysterical deliriums of maniacally macabre . My swashbuckling surreptitious spatiotemporal telemetry tactician is tacitly inured in a phantasmagoria fantastication of fabulist façade fantasias . I could positively kithe a futurity cudgel phantasm and bonkers bluster boggle with your phrenetically frenzied phrenic and forget my phyletic you preterit rendition autonomy equilibrist .
Jul 27, 2021
Jul 27, 2021 at 11:06 PM UTC
What do I need?
I need someone
To bring roses to.
Someone who will call me a dork
And say I'm sweet
And try to hide how much it means.
Someone who plays it cool
But won't set that rose down on the counter
For fear of breaking it,
As if affection is so fragile.
I need someone to tacitly agree with me
That something's there
And never talk about it-
Just enjoy it with me.
I need someone
Unafraid to break skin
And unashamed of scars
Whether they're mine or hers.
I need someone I'd name a storm after...
I need someone
To bring roses to.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
*A honeyed voice that makes love
To musical notes, subtly, intricately, tacitly.
On the dance floor she defies gravity albeit adroitly
Moving rhythmically, sampling moves from a treasure trove
Of influences spanning continents and varied cultures.
Atmosphere’s charged, taut with electric tension
The audience’s jaws had long since dropped
At the fast sight of her and it’s interesting to note
That until the routine’s over
They’ll stay put, held in place
By a blend of magical hypnosis
And sheer eclectic energy.
Well one doesn’t need to be an art connoisseur
To appreciate art, can’t help but savor.*
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 3:18 AM UTC
we were talking about you
the other day
the girl with the salt flat eyes
like an unrisen day
iodized green iris
and american thighs
tacitly unspoken
your solemn demise
closing night
on the wings of a dove
the dark makes it easy
to **** what you love
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
I want to be complacent, a replacement to this hole all others call a heart!! Dust from the start!
I want to be comprised of no compromise, and teased by one's wild garden.. I feel indigent to the search, where the Indegenous perch, and strike their venom fangs!!
Narcissism runs paid to high, for everyone's a god these days!
How wrong, how misled!!
Did you bump thine head at thy crawling from the womb? Or still intombed?
Postulate truth I adventure, for I seek no gold diggers, just this aaorta to grow bigger, as frowns can go their own..
An amour' unknown, curdled in with the lumps!
Didn't you know a little lump leavens the whole bread?
Knowledgeable pragmatic...
Rebut me all you will, for I do not need pills, only the comfort of a woman's attire! Flamed as fire!!!
Vociferous with one I want to be, virtuoso's, making melodys angel choired!
I need none invective, only an erudite of plebian Babylon!!
A daughter and son to raise amongst the brinks of end of days impromptu!!!
Tacitly I wait, where heaven is at her gate,
Only if I knew what time!
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC